Pablo de Segovia, the Spanish Sharper - Francisco de Quevedo (good summer reads .TXT) 📗

We fell into discourse, and he asked me whence I came? I told him, from Alcalá. “God’s curse,” said he, “on those low people, since there was not one man of sense to be found among them.” I asked how could that be said of such a town, where there were so many learned men? He answered, in a great passion, “Learned! I’ll tell you how learned, sir! I have for these fourteen years last past made all the songs and ballads and the verses for the bedels at Corpus Christi and Christmas, in the village of Majalahonda,15 where I am reader; and those you call learned men, when I put up some of my works among the rest, at the public act, took no notice of mine. And that you may be sensible, good sir, of the wrong they did me, I will read them to you;” and accordingly he began as follows:

Come, shepherds, let us dance and play
On great saint Corpus Christi’s day;
For he comes down to give its thanks,
For all our kind and loving pranks.
When we have drunk and made all even,
He flies back again to heaven.
What he does there I cannot say,
Since here with us he will not stay.
Come, shepherds, let us dance and play, etc.

Having read this admired piece, which was too long to remember any more of it, he proceeded: “Now, sir, could the very inventor of doggerel himself have said anything finer than this? Do but consider what a deal of mystery there is in that word ‘Shepherds’; it cost me about a month’s hard study.” I could no longer contain myself within bounds, for I was ready to burst, and so breaking out into a loud fit of laughter, I said, “It is most wonderful; but I observe you call great saint ‘Corpus Christi,’ whereas ‘Corpus Christi’ is not the name of a saint, but a festival instituted in honour of the blessed sacrament.” “That’s a pretty fancy,” replied he, scornfully, “I’ll show you him in the calendar, and he is canonized, and I’ll lay my head on it.” I could not contend any more with him for laughing at his unaccountable ignorance, but told him his verses deserved to be highly rewarded, for I had never seen anything more comical in my life. “No?” said he; “then pray hear a little of a small book I have written in honour of the eleven thousand virgins. I have composed fifty stanzas, of eight verses each, to every one of them; a most excellent piece.” For fear of being pestered with so many millions of his lines, I desired him to show me anything that was not godly; and then he began to recite a comedy, which had as many acts as there are days in a year. He told me he writ it in two days, and that was the rough draught, and might be about half a ream of paper. The name of it was Noah’s Ark; the whole represented by cocks and mice, asses, foxes, and wild boars, like Æsop’s fables. I extolled both the plot and the conduct; and he answered, “I ought not to commend it because it is my own, but the like was never made in the world, besides that it is altogether new; and if I can but get it acted, there will be nothing so fine. All the difficulty lies in that, for if it were not, could anything be so sublime and lofty? However, I have contrived to have it all acted by parrots, jackdaws, magpies, starlings, and all other sorts of birds as speak, and to bring in monkeys for the farce.” “That indeed will be very extraordinary,” answered I. “All this is nothing,” replied the old man, “to what I have done for the sake of a woman I love. Here are nine hundred and one sonnets, and twelve rondeaux”⁠—as if he had been reckoning up pounds, shillings, and pence⁠—“made in praise of my mistress’s legs.” I asked him whether he had ever seen them? He replied he had not, on his word as a priest, but that all his conceits were by way of prophecy. Though it was a diversion to hear his nonsense, I must confess I dreaded such a multitude of barbarous verses, and therefore endeavoured to turn off the discourse another way, telling him I saw hares. “Then,” cried he, “I’ll begin with one, in which I compare her legs to that creature.” Still to bring him off that subject, I went on, “Don’t you see that star, sir, which appears by daylight?” “As soon as I have done with this,” replied he, “I will read you the thirtieth sonnet, where I call her a star, for you talk as if you were acquainted with my fancies.” It was such a vexation to me to find I could name nothing but what he had writ some nonsense upon, that I was all joy when I perceived we drew near Madrid, believing he would then give over for shame; but it proved quite contrary, for as soon as we came into the street, he began to raise his voice, to show what he was. I entreated him to forbear, lest if the boys should once get the scent of a poet, all the rotten oranges and cabbage stumps in the town should come after us, in regard the poets were declared madmen, in a proclamation set out against them, by one that had been of the profession, but recanted and took up in time. This put him in a great consternation, and he begged me to read it to him if I had it. I promised him so to do when we came to the lodging-house; and accordingly we went to one where he used to alight, and found at least a dozen blind ballad-singers at the door. Some knew him by the scent, and others by his voice, and all of